So much to do before the end of the world

. . . and so little time before the end

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OPINION:
To-do list for the end of the world on Friday: 1. Get my greys touched up at the hairstylist's.

There is no point going to the next world the day after tomorrow with enough grey hair to provide alopecia-suffering Santas with an extra fake beard. 2. Book the cats into the local cattery.

While I'm tearing down the street screaming as the world implodes under my feet, the last thing I want to worry about is where Britney and Keanu are. They are jumpy enough at Guy Fawkes, let alone the apocalypse. 3. Wash the natty new Hyundai Getz before the globe explodes.

It's black and when my husband first saw it, he told me I would be endlessly frustrated at having to wash it all the time.

Of course, he was right, but I will never tell him that. I would rather stick pins in my eyes and wash the damned thing with a toothbrush first. 4. Send a text to John Key telling him he has done an OK job, but needs to work on his memory issues and troublesome ministers (he knows who they are).

It's high time for a break at his bach in Hawaii. I mean, if you're going to cark it, the beach at Waikiki would be better than windy Wellington, wouldn't it? 5. Buy the last supplies of my favourite tipple - soda with a twist of lemon.

It would be just my luck that the only part of the world to survive the end would be my street, and I would be left without a refreshing cold beverage as I attempted to re- invent the Earth.

I know hubby has a virtual brewery in the beer fridge downstairs, but I'm not stooping to that level of debauchery. 6. Use up all the vegetables in the fridge by Friday morning.

Our household has recently started getting fruit and vegetable boxes delivered every Wednesday, and there is a bit of a backlog of purple cauliflower, bean sprouts and bok choy in the chiller. Waste not, want not, as my mother-in-law says. 7. Give my neighbours a hug on Thursday night and tell them that I appreciate what they have done for me.

Especially George from No 13 who, despite being on the wrong side of 80, still butchers trees with his chainsaw for me and gives me lots of advice. 8. Keep tabs on the toilet tissue supplies.

I'm not sure why - it's possibly generic, thanks to a father phobic about the texture and quality of bog rolls, but I don't feel comfortable unless I have a four- pack stashed in the top of the pantry for those just-in-case cataclysmic moments. 9. Make sure the school bill is squared off before the planet collapses under its own gravity.

This year, with two children at our local high school, our annual account has topped nearly $1000 in school fees, subject costs and other sundries.

There is no way I'm leaving this mortal coil without settling it. I have a love-hate relationship with the harsh-looking woman who reigns over the "accounts payable" , thanks to an overdue science textbook, a neglected school bag and a three-month-old luncheon sandwich. 10. Phone Murray Deaker and tell him that, apart from those intensely annoying days when he rubbed me up the wrong way with his patronising rants, I loved baking on a Sunday afternoon serenaded by his dulcet tones as he discussed all things sport.

He was as integral as baking powder in scones and eggs in chocolate brownies. 11. Buy some more baking powder and eggs. 12. Wear those sexy lace knickers that my mum bought me in a sale for the big day.

If I'm going to be pulverised into zillions of pieces, I really should be wearing decent underwear. 13. Tell my darling friend Vicki that I'm blessed to have had a pal who has addicted me to chocolate-coated red licorice.

You're an angel made in heaven and I salute you, even though my addiction will probably drag me to the gates of hell. 14. Wax my chin.

It's an open secret that I suffer from excess facial hair and there is no way I'm going to my maker with a beard rivalling Gandalf's. 15. Unpack the dishwasher.

If I've rinsed them, stacked them and turned on the dishwasher, I might as well put them away neatly before the world explodes. 16. Ensure that all pegs are put away tidily in their buckets.

These are located conveniently at all four of our washing lines (one rotary, one undercover, one underneath the house when it's windy and the other for overload situations when 17 teenage boys come to stay).

Nothing annoys me more than the kids scattering my precious pegs to all four corners of the section when it's their turn to get the washing in. 17. Make sure my boss, Susan, knows she's the best in the solar system.

We might need to order a "Best Boss in the Universe" mug from one of those gift catalogues my dad gets in the mail, thanks to us all being obliterated on Friday. 18. Force my 15-year-old to tell me exactly what happened in the playhouse at the bottom of our garden, which all the year- 10 students at her school thinks is absolutely hilarious and talk about in hissed hysteria.

What could possibly be that funny when it's done in a two- metre-square wooden box? I'm dying to find out - literally. 19. Visit the lovely young pharmacy shop assistant at our local chemist for the last time.

She really makes the world a sunnier place and never forgets my name. I'm ashamed to say I've never caught hers in nearly five years, but when I pop in, I hope she'll be wearing a handy name tag, so I can finally say: "Thanks Julie/Davinia/Laura/Cecile/ Lynda/Rosemary/Justine/Paula/ Phillipa/Joan for everything. Have a nice Armageddon." 20. Thank "youse fullas" for reading this column for the past six or seven years.

You've had to deal with a lot of literary poppycock, a heap of emotional claptrap and more than your share of my family's daily drivel and traumatic twaddle.

If we make it past Friday, from me and mine to you and yours, have a lovely Christmas.